


A Mirthful Triptych

by HarpGuy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, tw: cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarpGuy/pseuds/HarpGuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three short ficlets. <br/>Kankri Vantas has an unfortunate encounter with a creepy clown troll, the mayor of Can Town attempts to deal with a new friend, and a giant Capricorn struggles with the effects of being an absent father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kankri Motherfuckin' Vantas

This young troll mystifies you a great deal. He’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and you don’t quite know how to handle him. He is currently sitting on the floor at the far side of the room, staring aimlessly into space. His make-up caked face is fixed in a broad grin, and you have absolutely no idea why. It worries you.

  
You stand nervously by the door, chewing at the neck of your sweater; something you do often when worried. As you glance over at the young Makara, he stands up. Oh god, he’s coming over to you. What does he want? “Hey,” he says, “You’re lookin’ down, my fluffy-sweatered motherfucker. What’s up?”

  
“Eh? What?” you respond, the sweater falling from your mouth, “You’re a bit close. Could you please respect my personal space a bit more?”

“Oh. Sorry, dude,” he says, backing away slightly, “Is there anythin’ I can be doin’ to help? I’m all up and good at helpin’ people when they’re feelin’ a bit low.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”

He shoots a concerned glance at you as he shuffles off, and you can’t help thinking he’s planning something. You can’t imagine what he might be thinking of, but it makes you uncomfortable. Hell, everything about him makes you uncomfortable. You go back to chewing on the neck of your sweater. The sweater isn’t in awfully good shape now, but it’s a nervous habit you can’t get rid of.

  
***

Oh no, he’s coming back. And what is that THING in his hands? Some sort of cake? You gradually slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor in the hopes that he’ll just go away. It’s no use though, he brings the cake over and sets it down in front of you before sitting beside you. You stare confusedly at him until he speaks.

“Have some motherfuckin’ cake, man,” he says, “I up and made it just for you.”

“Have you considered potential allergies?” you reply, backing away slightly, “Did you even think that I might be offended by your proposition? I might be a coeliac... I might be allergic to eggs. Or moobeast fluids.”

His grin falters slightly. “A... Are you any of them crazy things?” he asks.

“As it happens, no I’m not. But my point remains; I might have been! Please, just think about how others might see your actions. You’re clearly well meaning, but... just think a bit more. Be less insensitive.”

He looks worried by that. “What d’you mean by all that? It’s only a cake. No need for you to be gettin’ so motherfuckin’ offended an’ all by it.”

“No!” you say, worried by how upset he looks. Shit, he could be about to break down in tears. “I’m not offended at all! I just... might have been, that’s all.”

“Oh...” he says, and then brightens up a bit, “Well, if you ain’t offended, have some of the motherfuckin’ cake. I all up an’ made it to cheer you the fuck up.”  
You sigh quietly to yourself and then reach out for a slice of cake. As you do so, his old grin returns and he takes one for himself. You’re surprised by just how good his cake is, and tell him so. His grin broadens. “Aw, thanks man,” he says, and reaches out to embrace you. You tense up at his touch, but his delight is so clear that you soon relax into the hug. Alarm bells about personal space and unwanted contact ring in your brain, but you ignore them completely. You guess Makara isn’t so bad after all.


	2. Painting with Carapaces

This is the most fun you’ve had since you arrived on the meteor. You’re sitting in a tiny little city made of tin cans, and it’s motherfucking amazing. It’s like a real city, but all small and made out of cans. You love it. Your new friend seems to love it too. You’re not quite sure exactly who he is, but this little carapace guy is fucking adorable. He’s just sitting there next to you, and you’re both shunting cans around and drawing on the floor. This is so much fun. 

You feel that Can Town lacks a certain something, though. You could probably improve it a bit. “Hey, carapace guy,” you say, “I just all up an’ had me an idea. I’ll be back soon, ‘kay?” He nods silently at you, and you wander off, grinning. You head to your respiteblock, pull the objects you needed out of your secret stash, and quickly return to Can Town. “Here, man,” you say, “Look at what I got. These’ll make your bitchtits city even more beautiful. Watch this.” You put your tools down, choose the ones you want first, and set to work.

Something about art has always made you happy. As you slosh various brightly coloured paints around the streets of Can Town, your grin gets wider and wider. It’s so much fun, working on this motherfucking wonderful project. 

The little carapace doesn’t seem too impressed by your work. In fact, he seems horrified by it. You take a step back and admire it; it’s not your best but it isn’t fucking bad at all. “What’s wrong, man?” you ask, “Are my stylin’s not what you were up an’ expectin’? Shit, did you have a motherfuckin’ plan for this city I wasn’t aware of?”

He makes it very clear to you that no, this isn’t the case. What he objects to is less your artistic style and more the fact that you’ve just covered his project in various different colours of troll blood. He really doesn’t seem happy at all. He’s still adorable, even when he’s angry. Not to worry though, you’ve got other stuff in your bag of miracles. You’re sure something in there will cheer the guy up. 

***

No, he doesn’t seem to appreciate that either. He explains to you that most civilised towns don’t have severed arms as bridges. You don’t quite understand why, but he seems very insistent. You think the arm bridges look pretty fucking neat, actually, and you don’t get what upsets him so much about the whole thing. Hell, since you started working on it Can Town has gone from being a tiny little village of tin cans to being a bustling, brightly coloured metropolis; it’s only got better.  
He seems really distressed. You suppose you should probably clean up the mess you’ve made; he obviously doesn’t have the same taste in art as you do, and you don’t want to make your new friend unhappy.

Fortunately he’s the forgiving sort; as soon as you’ve removed the arms and mopped up the blood, he welcomes you back to Can Town, and the two of you get back to work on expanding its metallic borders. It feels so good to be a motherfucking citizen of such a wonderful town. You can’t keep the grin off your face. To be honest, though, you very rarely can.


	3. Trying to Parent

You are horrified the first time you come home to find him with his make up on. He’s always been a little odd, ever since he was a newly hatched wiggler, but this is new. You suppose you shouldn’t have left him alone for so long. 

He’s grown up a bit, and grown apart from you; every time you visit you feel like you know him less and less. He stands on the other side of the room, slouching against the wall, his painted face fixed in a vacuous grin. You’re going to have to do something about that. There’s no way you can let him go through life looking like that. It just wouldn’t be fair to him or to anyone else; something must be done. As soon as possible.

You roughly haul him out of his recuperacoon one morning and, picking him up by the scruff of his neck, drag him down to the seashore to get his face cleaned up. You’re sure you’ll have him looking sensible and respectable in no time! Pushing him to the floor and holding him down, you set to work with your tongue.

He coughs and splutters as you roughly attempt to lick his face clean. “What are you doin’, you motherfuckin’ lunatic?” he protests, trying to push you off, “What’s my face ever up an’ done to you that makes you be hatin’ it so much? You’re my lusus! You’re meant to be all up an' supportive of my decisions!” His complaints are stifled by another determined scrape of your tongue, but as soon as he is unobstructed he continues. “Motherfuckin’ fascist! Leave me alone! I got rights, you know! I like my face like this! Stop bein’ so oppressive – I’m all up an’ tryin’ to express myself here!”

You ignore his protests and keep going until his face is completely clean. The water around you is cloudy with swirls of white paint, but there’s no sign of any white on his face; it’s now a good, uniform grey. You lift your hoof from his chest and step back to admire your handiwork. You think you’ve done a pretty good job; he looks far more presentable than he has done in a while, if somewhat wet and sandy. He stands up, dripping, and glares at you before stalking off silently to his respiteblock. He’ll probably sulk at you for a while, but you’re used to it. He’s always been a moody child, but it seems to have only got worse while you were away. You wish you could be a more useful parent more of the time. Oh well, you think, at least you’ve done your bit for now. You try your hardest to make him grow into a troll you can be proud of, but you just don’t understand him. You’ll love him whatever he does, but you don’t know if he’ll see it like that. 

Within an hour he has painted his face again. You aren’t awfully surprised, but this time you let him keep it like that. You suppose it’s his decision really.


End file.
